


Purple Like Bruises

by greygerbil



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alexios is Deimos (Assassin's Creed), Breathplay, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 05:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20501372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/pseuds/greygerbil
Summary: Deimos thought that sleeping with Stentor would be nothing but a simple distraction.





	Purple Like Bruises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wednesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/gifts).

> Some not safe, probably not sane, but consensual kink.

“I need to find a leash for you.”

Deimos laughed roughly and tugged harder at the dishevelled braid in his hand. He was on fire, from the pit of his stomach to the inside of his skull and the pressure points were Stentor’s fingers dug bruises into his back.

“It’s you Spartans who put them on yourself,” he grunted, driving his cock deeper into him. “Must be for a reason.”

“Yet it’s you who likes to act the beast.”

Stentor glanced at his upper arm, just one of the many places where Deimos had left a bite mark. Deimos only grinned, showing his teeth. He ducked his head quickly, too quickly for Stentor to react, and latched on to his throat. Stentor slapped his hand down on his head, wrenched him off with a push.

“Not where people can see,” he hissed.

Deimos was about to respond about how he’d enjoy the whole of Sparta knowing how much Stentor loved being fucked by a beast, but Stentor hooked his legs higher and pushed his heels into the small of his back just as he angled his hips up, pulling Deimos suddenly flush and deep, and all smug words were garbled into a groan. Panting, Deimos grabbed on to him, his shoulder for purchase and his throat for pleasure, and as Stentor gagged, he held Deimos’ wrist, digging his nails in, but not moving it away. Deimos waited for him to come, struggling for breath under his hand, before he allowed himself to spill into his writhing body, pleasure hitting him like a cudgel to the hollow of his stomach.

A red mark was around Stentor’s neck, but Deimos doubted it would last. He never dared to squeeze that tightly; Stentor relied on him not to. He could have done it without killing him, Deimos was sure, but he could only have done it once, because he knew Stentor would have kicked him out of the bed with curses and blows.

It was a bit of a pity, but not too much, Deimos thought, as he sat back on his haunches when Stentor’s limbs released him. Deimos was much too fascinated that someone would allow him to push that far, even if it was an unspoken permission, only granted through lack of protest. No one trusted him like that, especially not the people he’d fucked. He’d taken quite a few, cultists with nervous smiles on their lips. They had asked to lay with him because he was of the bloodline; they had feared him for the same reason.

Stentor was not afraid of him. He should have been. Out of the three of Nikolaos’ children, he was the only one without the blood of the gods and normal humans were so awfully breakable – a little tumble off a small hill was all it took to end them sometimes. It was foolish and more interesting to be brave if your neck could crack so easily, though.

As Deimos pulled his chiton over his head, Stentor sat up and began to undo the braid Deimos had pulled from his head. Loop by loop, he freed strands that hung down to his hip. For a while, Deimos watched him. Stentor didn’t speak, focused on his task, still naked and loose-limbed from sex. Deimos hadn’t seen him like this before. He usually was gone by the time Stentor got up.

The cultists had always scrambled away from him as far as they could at the first chance, probably fearing that now sated he’d demonstrate he had no use for them anymore, though Deimos had never killed or even hurt anyone after sex. While he’d suspected it, this was the first time he’d tarried to confirm Stentor wouldn’t do the same.

Deimos turned, unsure of the twinge in his chest. His mind had been filled with only Stentor for the last hour, his words, his harsh breathing, the silent sound of his hair sliding in his hands. Perhaps that was how he’d missed the rain which he heard patter dull against the walls now. In the quiet of Stentor’s house with its thick walls, it seemed far away, but now that the sweat cooled on his skin, Deimos noticed that the temperature had dropped, too.

Rain lashed him the moment he opened the door. The dark November night was wracked with a storm. A heavy gust of wind blew papers down from a table nearby. Instinctively, he slammed the door shut again.

“What in the gods’ name are you doing?” Stentor called through the open doorway from the back room, throwing him a displeased glance.

“I wanted to go,” Deimos growled, wiping water off his face.

“Where do you need to be past midnight in a storm like this?” Stentor asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re not that important. Just stay inside. It’ll be over in the morning.”

Deimos halted by the door. Somehow the thought of bracing the storm was easier than remaining. It was so strangely quiet here, cool and comfortable. He only ever came to Stentor’s house to fuck.

The realisation that he was scared to remain for some reason pushed Deimos to do so, for he did not allow that feeling in himself. He walked back to the bed.

Stentor laid aside a comb. His hair was in order again, Deimos’ chaos eradicated.

Deimos reached out, grabbing a fistful of it and giving it a gentle tug. Stentor scowled as he struck his arm.

“I changed my mind, go stand in the rain,” he snapped.

Deimos grinned as he sat down next to him on the bed. It was a careful movement, but Stentor was busy straightening the strands again before he began the process of braiding them once more and did not complain. Deimos leaned into the pillows. There were goosebumps on Stentor’s arms. The storm banged the door on its hinges like an iron fist. Still, Deimos felt his heartbeat slow as he sat there. He could not remember when he had last felt so little on alert and that, in turn, put him back on his guard.

“I should have brought wood inside to make a fire. It’s no good now all wet, even if I did want to go out,” Stentor muttered to himself.

“I thought you Spartan soldiers slept in tents most days.”

“_I_ don’t care about the cold,” Stentor said haughtily. “I don’t know where you’ve slept all your life, though.”

“Wherever,” Deimos muttered, confused with the fact that Stentor seemed dissatisfied that he could not be hospitable. He’d spent the first twelve years of his life on the naked stone floor, until he was strong enough to force better for himself from his handlers. “Where do I sleep here?”

“You’re in a bed, are you not?”

He was.

Deimos watched Stentor make a neat braid again, the rhythmic movement of it like a swaying snake about to strike. Stentor did not bother to wrap it around his head when it was finished, but instead laid by Deimos’ side after blowing out the candle. Darkness enveloped them and the light seemed to swallow the last of the warmth. Deimos was still for a moment before he turned in a sudden movement, without thought, and wrapped his arm punishingly tight around Stentor, pushing him onto his side so they were chest to back. Stentor made a noise of protest, but no serious attempt to escape.

“It’s cold,” Deimos said.

“Right,” Stentor murmured.

Stentor had not put a leash on him and Deimos doubted he would, that he really cared to, for he’d taken Deimos in when he was all beast; and yet here he was, curled by Stentor’s side like a fat, spoiled, old hunting dog. The voices of the women and men who had trained him whispered cold in the back of his mind, like the wind rattling the wooden door, trying to break in.

Stentor’s hand found Deimos’ arm, grasping aimlessly, and pressing the small crescent cuts his blunt nails had left on his wrist. Deimos cursed quietly and bit Stentor’s throat. He could feel it twitch with a quiet chuckle before Stentor shook him off.

The voices were silent for a moment and Deimos did not have a lot of that, so he decided simply to enjoy it, face buried against Stentor’s neck, without baring his teeth this time.


End file.
